


Deep Water

by cerulean_sin (am_bellanoire)



Series: Kiss the Girl (Uma-Centric F/F) [1]
Category: Descendants (Disney Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Movie: Descendants 2, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-29 21:04:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20802962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/am_bellanoire/pseuds/cerulean_sin
Summary: “You weren't lying,” you murmur, sauntering closer, ever closer, until you are fully before her. Almost touching, but not quite.“What do you mean,” she whispers back, her voice gone hoarse, cheeks flushed, her eyes a verdant blaze.“Youwereflattered that I dream of you...but guess what,drage, I know you dream about me too.”





	Deep Water

  


She beckons and you come. You can't help it. You'll always come when she calls. In more ways than one. She, the one of purple hair and pale skin, emerald eyes, and coral kissed lips. 

She calls to you like the sea. And though you've never known the true nature of the ocean waves, the sound of the surf, the scent of salt living on the Isle of the Lost for the past seventeen years, inherently you know that it is something you cannot deny.

She is something you could never deny. 

Oh, how you hate her. You hate her with everything you have in you. But she has your number, she's always had it. From since you were children. You follow and she leads. And you hate it becauase you're a captain, you command a crew. In her absense, you dominate the island prison. You're the leader now. But still, you can't help yourself. Whenever she is near, it's as if something comes over you. A fit, a fever, a force you cannot fight. She disarms you with her eyes and weakens you with her touch. 

Her fingers linking with yours, she pulls you and your feet move without your consent. And it's okay. There's no sensible reason why it should be, but it is. It's even better when she pushes open the battered and rusted metal door to her lair. It was once the only place she could escape her mother and you can't help but sympathize because your ship is the only place you can escape yours. 

But there is more to it than that. Because even though the walls are marked by her, tagged with her graffiti, the wide space smells of her, feels of her, this is your domain. It's always been. This is the place where you weave your own particular magic on her. And the energy shifts accordingly. You snatch yourself out of her grip and she's looking at you, all jade eyes and a perfect pouty mouth and your lips quirk upward, parting into a feral grin. 

“Strip.”

And she does. Alabaster fingers tugging at zippers and buttons as if her very life depends on it. As if you have the honed edge of your blade pressed against that lily white neck of hers, point thirsting for blood, and you would have it no other way. 

It's almost like what it was before she went to Auradon. Almost like what it was before you hated her. Before the envy had set in. Before those poisonous thoughts and those sickeningly sappy feelings had set in. When it was just you and her and pale skin beneath dark, turquoise hair against purple, salt and sweat, and whispered words of affection neither of you truly understood. 

“You weren't lying,” you murmur, sauntering closer, ever closer, until you are fully before her. Almost touching, but not quite.

“What do you mean,” she whispers back, her voice gone hoarse, cheeks flushed, her eyes a verdant blaze.

“You _were_ flattered that I dream of you,” you lean forward slightly, knee bent until your thigh meets the apex of hers and you can feel the evidence of that flattery, hot and wet. Your hands immediately dart out to catch her at the elbows because it seems as if her own knees can no longer support her weight, “But guess what, _drage_, I know you dream about me too.”

You walk her backward towards the bed – if it can even be called that, nothing but a stack of tattered and frayed mattresses one on top the other – your gaze never wavering from hers. 

“Ain't that right?” you purr, the sound rumbling low and dulcet from your chest. “You do, don't you?” Another step backwards until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the mattress and catch, sending you both tumbling into free fall, “Say it.”

“_Yes_,” she tries to snap, but there are no teeth, and you can't help but cackle. The sound of your mirth bounces off the tin walls, and reverberates in the stagnant air. She tries to frown but the expression is dampened because you are draped atop of her, skin to skin, and she can't think.

You know this because you can't either. 

“I gotta admit,” you despise the breathless quality of your voice, spoken against the column of a smooth ivory throat, “You almost had me fooled for a minute. Just a minute, though. I knew they couldn't have turned you out that quick. Not _you_.”

Your mouth trails from her neck to her collarbone, down to her breasts – her chest heaving with the husky whimpers she makes – and you encase a plump pink nipple into the warm cavern of your mouth, sucking deeply until she moans. A high pitched and wanton sound that goes straight to your core. 

“We both know it took me quite a while to figure out how to make you tick, right?”

You pinch the other nipple between your calloused fingers while your free hand cups the heat at the meeting of her thighs. You chuckle, low in your throat as her hips buck upward to meet your touch. Oh, it has been far too long and your little dragon is ready and needy. Just how you like her.

Just how you missed her.

“What's wrong _min lille drage_, Beasty Boy just not doing it for you?” You try to sneer but you can't quite hold back the tinge of jealousy as you stroke her lazily, not giving her the friction she desperately seeks, “Yeah I know. Those Auradon lads don't really get us, do they?”

“_Uma_,” she keens, the perfect picture of torturous gluttony and you love that it's you who has put that tone of yearning in her voice. 

You want to hear it again. 

“Uma, what?” 

A hand tangles in your braids and pulls harshly, nails scratching at your scalp. Yes, there she is. There's the flame you've been trying to kindle. 

“Stop fucking around, Shrimpy.” 

With her, it is always a matter of playing with fire. But you, you've never been afraid of getting burned. And that's what made you laugh during that farce of an arm wrestling match back at the chip shop. She had let you win because it was your turf. Even after all the months she's spent in Auradon, she still understands how Isle politics work. And that shouldn't turn you on as much as it does. Yeah, she let you win. But now you're here, on her turf, her little friends nowhere to be seen but more than likely lurking, and you just have to trust that you haven't walked into a trap. 

You hate trusting her. 

You drive two fingers into her without warning and you relish in the way her brows knit, the way her eyes flare, lashes flitter, the way she gasps. Her body accepts the invasion easily, so you know you haven't hurt her but the childish nickname makes you want to cause her pain. Your hand shifts and you thrust in with your ring finger and you love the way her breath catches, love the faltering look she levels you with as if she is a split second away from begging for respite.

That's more like it. 

You set a punishing pace, ravaging her with all the frustration and rage of the past year. Harsh and unforgiving. All the love she turned into hate. Her hips buck and canter in an attempt to keep up with you, her back arched, spine bowed. Strings of obscenities that spill freely from her mouth, prettily broken, give way to sharp cries rife with so much pleasure it sounds like pain. She paints your mahogany skin red with welts that sting. You wrap a hand around her throat, never slowing your thrusts, and squeeze. Her gaze meets yours and for one fleeting second, something anyone else might have missed, there is fear there. Distrust. But it's gone before you can dwell on why it sent a lance of hurt through your heart, and as you twist your wrist, and curl your fingers deep within her, her eyes flutter shut and you sink your teeth into her pulse point, the taste of her skin salty and sweet on your tongue, aiming to bruise. Her body starts to go rigid, her muscles tightening as she gets closer and closer to release. And with a final thrust, you roughly push her over the edge, moaning as her walls rapidly clench, as she thrashes and writhes, whimpering your name like a prayer. 

The look on your face is decidedly smug as she slowly comes down from her high, her chest heaving, her face incarnadine and glistening. 

The conceit gives way to shock when in an impressive display of strength, she grips you by the arms, hooks her feet around your calves, and flips you onto your back. You can't breathe because you are suddenly drowning in a sea of purple and green. 

“_My_ turn,” she growls behind a smirk. 

Your heart lurches in your chest as she looms over you, snatching at your leathers with a ferocity that might have frightened you had you been made of weaker stuff. Even still, part of you wants to bat her hands away, disentangle yourself from her, put some distance between the two of you now that you've gotten your pound of flesh. But the other part, the part of you that she still _owns_, aches for her. For what only she can give. It's been far too long for you to properly play coy. The breathy sobs and raspy wails that she wrenches from you with her fiery touch can attest to that. Her pace is furious and relentless, three fingers filling you, stretching you, the pad of her thumb assaulting your clit. Your hands seek blindly, frantically for purchase against the stormy onslaught, your nails digging into anything within reach. But it's a battle you inevitably lose, you always do, and you're careening into climax, your eyes rolling back, your body shuddering, her name soft as a sigh on your lips. 

The high is short lived. Painfully so, blessedly so. And as soon as your heart rate slows to it's normal cadence, you pull yourself off of the bed and grab your clothes. It's over. Whatever spell she cast in the chip shop that made you follow her here. It's time to draw the lines back in the sand. This isn't the past, it's the here and now and you cannot allow yourself to be swept in a typhoon of emotions. You cannot afford to. You need the safety and security of your ship. Your crew. Your first mate. You need to get back to the prisoner you hold captive. 

The king. 

The one she loves. 

“Noon,” you grunt curtly as you jerk your leathers back over your thighs. You're not looking at her. You've seen enough of her already. “And not a minute later or into the sea he goes.”

“I hate you.” 

Yesterday the words might have scalded, but now they soothe. It's a relief to know that she feels the same way. You smile, a shark-like gnash of teeth as you give her your back. 

“Yeah. I hate you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> **drage -- dragon  
**min lille drage -- my little dragon
> 
> I...don't even know? Lol I just know I saw some posts and gifs on Tumblr and this story started writing itself? Umm, yeah. So, that's that. Lots of unresolved issues between these two (it's set in D2 so we know this) and I hope I conveyed the nature of their relationship in a way that could be understood. Thank you for reading and feedback would be much appreciated.


End file.
